Who am I?

She trotted the streets of San Francisco. A few people threw worried or dirty looks her way, but she shrugged them off. At this point, the answer to "What, you've never seen a talking pony before?" was generally "No (I have)".

The half-built masts of Memorial Bridge rose in the distance beyond the city. The mare, curious, grabbed a 3D model of the Golden Gate Bridge from the internet and superimposed it upon the current view. She herself had no experiential memories of the fallen span, only clinical, sterilized data about it--when the quake struck she didn't yet have sapience. It felt weird, being named after something that no longer existed. Really, a lot of things felt weird right now.

Alternating images of reality and the digital reconstruction danced back and forth within her mind

And was I programmed to council my little ponies?